


Clown And Huntress

by orphan_account



Series: Palestuck [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Good Moirail Gamzee Makara, Intrusive Thoughts, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, gampeta stans come get your juice, nepeta is a competent woman, neprezi mentioned, the author is projecting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:22:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25828138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: In which Gamzee'd like to heal. In which Nepeta assists. In which, perhaps, a single thing set right can set right everything else, too.
Relationships: Nepeta Leijon & Gamzee Makara
Series: Palestuck [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1869676
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17





	Clown And Huntress

**Author's Note:**

> Content warning for homestuck typical gore, mentions and descriptions of violent intrusions.

The clown wakes up, once more. His flesh, clammy, his face paint left in smears on his face. His breath, ragged, vision, obscured by curls that no swipe of his claws seems to be able to drive away. He honks in fear. Fear born from what flicks behind his eyes, scenes from a fresh nightmare. Gorgeous murals, gory bodies, the sight of his dearest ones strangled. His moirail’s blood, smeared across the floor and the walls, the girl she fancies flush, bled out just the same- And with the teal and olive blood, is painted a forest upon the wall. A memory of a place long since crushed under celestial blows.

He dreamt of such beauty, but at such a cost. And when he wakes, it will not leave his vision. There’s only one thing that occurs to him, in this sleep-addled state- to imbibe in the soporifics that drowns all the horror out. He pulls himself out of his bed. He stumbles for the dresser, knocking open a jar. He scoops green slime from the jar with his dirty hands and is right about to consume the substance when there is a knock at the door.

Gamzee Makara regards Nepeta Leijon the same way any animal might when caught in misdoing. Guiltily, the clown honks. The slime oozes back into the jar as she steps into the room. Nepeta was not always such an intimidating woman, and were the Alternian order of things still standing, the fact she was approaching him at all might’ve been a challenge. But she walks up to him and sets her hand on his cheek. To him, her voice is a focus point, an anchor in a world of swirling colors and carnivalia. She gently papped his cheek once again and spoke.

“Did mew have another nightmare?” she asked, as if she didn’t know the answer would be yes. After all, it had been his fear filled honk that summoned her. 

Gamzee nodded, making a furtive glance back toward the sopor. “I wAs JuSt.. I wAs JuSt GoNnA mEdIcAtE.”

Nepeta blinks at him. And begrudgingly shakes her head. “Were mew going to eat the slime, or use it topically?” 

The clown’s face, where the bare skin is visible, is flush with shame. And that says all that the huntress needs to hear. She gently sighs. The Empire hadn’t been built in a night, even if a night was all that it had taken to cull it down to perhaps 12. Likewise, good habits weren’t built in a night- Though they both could try. 

She gently takes the clown’s wrist in her hands, and walks him to the ablution chamber down the hall. “Let’s clean mew up,” she offers, softly and firmly. 

He protests, his voice erratic in volume. She continues to drag him down the hall, and sits him down on the edge of the shower. 

He holds still. She removes yesterday’s face paint, and he only honks as she lays him bare. From there, she retrieves fresh paints from her sylladex and a jar of sopor. 

The sopor is set on the counter, as is the facepaint. She takes a small amount of the sopor and applies it like lotion, rubbing the soothing slime into his skin- 

The clown, for his part, merely accepts this ritual routine. He holds still as she applies the sopor, the lighter paint, and then the darker paint. 

Every morning this dance is done, and every morning the urge to eat the sopor lessens. The thoughts that plague him become easier to bear at the touch of Nepeta’s hands, at the soft sound of her voice against his ears. Over and over, she has told him that the violence injected into his mind will not come to pass. At last, he believes her. Perhaps, soon, he can even look at the synthetic pigments that the humans had introduced them to, without the urge to use troll blood punching him in the chest. 

She finishes, he stands. The next bit of the dance follows- 

He offers her breakfast, she accepts. He makes their meal, and they discuss the plans of the day. 

Life on the meteor is monotonous, but in the monotony is the safety to repair.


End file.
